They Know
by Flitty
Summary: They don't know who they are. What they're doing here. All they know is, they will find out. Together.
1. They Know the Jungle Moon

They know that their name is Connie. Or maybe Steven.

They know that they are male. Or maybe female. The quick check they make is inconclusive.

They know their date of birth. Except there's two of them, and they don't know which is the right one.

Really, they conclude, stuffing every last scrap of paper back into the rucksack, they don't know much.

They know to keep calm.

They know what amnesia is, and they know that they will overcome it - by remembering or by retracing their footsteps, they don't know.

They know that they have themself, and that they love themself - what they did to deserve that, they don't know.

They don't know much, and that's okay.

They don't know what they're sitting on, so they shuffle away from it, wincing as their head pounds like... well, they don't know an appropriate simile.

They know that they're smart though. How else would they use words like 'appropriate' and 'simile' in their regular, non-scholarly thoughts? Especially with such a splitting headache.

Everything aches, they realise, not just their head. They suddenly know that a bit _too _well.

The thing they were sitting on is unfamiliar, but that makes sense. It looks a little bit like a platform, or a pedestal. It's cut like a gemstone of some kind, but it's opaque and sort of white-ish. Can pearls be cut like that? Are there any pearls in the world big enough to be cut like that?

The word Pearl brings with it a strange pang. They don't know what that is.

They don't _know_ what the pedestal does, but they _did _just wake up on top of it sporting total amnesia, so they're not too eager to test it.

It has a deep crack running through the middle, the jagged edges crumbling a little into the crevasse. Is it broken? Was it supposed to do anything in the first place, or was it just an inert platform?

They turn and take in the sights around them, frown turning into a pout. They know how to survive in the wild, but the wild isn't playing fair. How is anyone supposed to eat rocks?

Big rocks.

Not rocks at all, actually. They can see some sort of sigil-script situated aside the sun-like... um...

Aw, they were this close to a full alliterative sentence. Oh well.

The point is, this rubble isn't natural. That probably means that they're in a ruined building of some kind, which is why there's no wildlife here. But if they go far enough out, hopefully they should hit some kind of natural food source.

They gather up what must be their things - a sheathed, pink, single-edged sword; a backpack full of odd knickknacks and complete with bedroll; and... the cooked body of some kind of creature? It's too well-done to tell what it used to be, and they probably wouldn't remember anyway - and clip it all into place on their back. Except the creature, which is bland but filling enough to keep them going for a while.

The ache isn't going away, but they need to find food. That they had some with them when they came here is a good sign - it means there are more of the creatures reasonably close by.

They just need to find them.

* * *

Even in all their pain, surviving is easier than they thought it would be.

Part of them resists hurting the creatures here, but they need the protein. So as a compromise, they slice up those odd creatures that can live without their tails, and eat said tails instead of the whole creatures.

The creatures here aren't familiar, but that doesn't surprise them. They have amnesia after all.

They need to rest often. Sometimes the bodily ache becomes unbearable and they waste time curled up in the hammock, blubbering openly through the cramps.

It makes them angry at something. They're amazing. Even after just a few days they know that better than anyone, not that there's anyone to compare to. They're smart yet compassionate, realistic yet optimistic, strong enough in both body and mind to push past their hurt and do what they must, yet mindful enough to never stretch their limits too hard and injure themself. They don't deserve this pain, none of them does.

What evil, horrid person left them stranded here? Who destroyed their no-doubt beautiful, hard-earned memories without a second thought?

They're furious.

But the rage isn't helping, so slowly, they let it go. Each breath releases a little more. They like to think it could reach the culprit, dancing on the wind, make their life just a smidge more difficult.

They know that there probably isn't a culprit. After reviewing what little information they have, they have to concede that this was surely an accident. But it's a comforting thought, that they might now be more safe from the bad guy, because they took the time to be angry.

* * *

Emotions are fun!

A new wave comes with every new discovery, every repetition, every passing thought. Even when the rest of the world appears to stand still, their emotions coil and stretch, spin together and drift apart.

It's fascinating to watch them go by. It's cathartic to act on them. They can be energizing or exhausting, but they're always so interesting!

It's been a month or two - they don't know for certain, the days feel shorter than they should - and they've gotten used to life in the wilderness.

They've learned how to trap, slay and skin all of the most common creatures - their resistant part has grown slowly more accepting of the importance of their own survival. They've learned how start a fire, how to boil-purify water without losing too much of it to steam, and how to separate the salt to season their meals with a little familiar comfort. How to shave with a sword, how to build, how to make a facsimile of a toothbrush, how to pack up their things and move on, day after day.

They've learned not to trust their muscle memory. They always tried to block at first, and now their arms are littered with scars of all shapes and sizes.

They've learned their limits, often the hard way. And they've learned the cause of said limits.

Their gemstone is broken.

What exactly the gemstone _is_, they don't know. They know that humans don't have gemstones usually, but they have some conflicting impressions of people with gemstones.

They're magical people with powers. They're family. Enemies. Friends, teammates, mysteries.

They don't separate these thoughts. The conflict is interesting to watch, and it's strangely comforting, knowing that despite this disagreement they can still act normally.

So what they know about their gemstone is inconclusive. They know it's some kind of power source, because it glows sometimes, and that's when they feel strong enough to move, hunt, live. It's connected to their mind, since they can purposely cause the glow, if they think hard enough about it.

It might be connected to their memories too, if breaking the gem is what caused their memory loss.

They've tried binding the halves together, and they don't know if it did anything, but it's a moot point anyway because the harness needs to be so tight that it digs into their stomach and hurts even more. They don't wear it, but they keep it handy just in case something comes up.

They know that the gemstone is pink, and that must mean something. But they don't know what. The only pink gem they can think of is rose quartz, but their gemstone seems too...

Too pink.

Do sapphires come in pink? Emeralds? Heck, even diamonds? They know diamonds aren't always white, but what other colors they can be is something that they don't know.

And in what world are ordinary gemstones magical?

They inspect the gem closer, using a dewdrop as a lens and a silvery lake as their mirror, and what they find is an answer. Well, the beginnings of one.

A circuit.

It's so tiny that it's invisible to the naked eye, but it's there. Tiny lines, channels for something - light? - to travel through, built into the very structure of the mineral.

There are more, but the one they find first holds sentimental value. It looks like a heart from their angle, a reminder to always love themself. As if they'd ever need to be told.

It glows, always. Dim, but there. They almost wonder what would happen if it broke, but they can't bear to find out.

Even as they continue travelling across the land in search of civilisation, they begin experimenting.

* * *

They sigh, content, as they shrug on their newly-made clothing. It's more like leafy, leathery armor than the tee and jeans that have long since been worn threadbare and packed up for good, but it's easy to replicate (this is the dozenth set so far), easy to move around in, and it protects them from brambles and creatures alike.

Today's armor is a little different, with a heart design woven into the chestpiece. Because today is a little different.

They've figured out how to brighten the heart-circuit.

How they do it is ironic. They think of everything they've done. And, like breaking a heart, they separate it.

Killing. They had to, the tails weren't enough to sustain them. They didn't want to.

Cleaning. They were moving on anyway. The wildlife didn't deserve to be hurt like that.

Murals. They were fascinating. Why couldn't they be easier to understand?

The pedestal. It was dangerous. They need to go back for it!

Gemstones.

Distance. Mystery. Enemies. Tutors.

Closeness. Family. Friends. Teammates.

Their gem glows brighter, encompasses them-

* * *

They open their eyes.

In front of them kneels, alert and cautious, an on-guard teenager. Female.

"Connie," they realise.

For the first time in a long time, they don't know much.

* * *

They open their eyes.

In front of them sits, cross-legged and wondrous, a bright-eyed young teen. Male.

"Steven," they think aloud.

For the first time in a long time, they don't know much.

* * *

"I'm split," they say together. Not upset, curious.

"I'm Steven," Steven says.

"My name is Connie," Connie replies.

They know that already, but introducing themself to themself seems important.

They break out into smiles - not just one, _two smiles! _\- and lunge for each other, meeting in the middle with two _whoof_s of air and a harmony of laughter.

Their gem, on Steven's belly, glows brightly, and they take a moment to think of all the things they did, they disagreed on.

But Steven only has one part of the thoughts. Connie has the other part. They don't need to separate them.

They're... so different from each other.

But they still go together so well.

They're amazing.

* * *

They never go far from each other. Sometimes they're themself, and sometimes they're Steven and Connie, but they're never apart.

They always hurt, as themself or as Steven and Connie. They don't mind. They have themself and themselves for support.

They're so different.

Steven cries, cares, goofs and jokes. Connie sometimes does those too, but not as much.

Connie panics, fights, plays the straight one. Steven sometimes does those too, but not as much.

Steven is artsy, spontaneous, incredible. Connie is practical, reliable, unbelievable.

Together, they travel and play and laugh and survive.

But most importantly, they live and they love.

* * *

They want a name.

Connie and Steven have names. Connie and Steven together is them. So they should have a together-name.

Conniven. Ste...onnie? Stonnie.

That sounds dumb, they laugh.

Connie is short for Constance, right? and Steven is short for... Steven.

Constaven. Consteven? Constaven?

No.

Conven. Convance. Coven.

Kevin?

**_KEVIN..._**

No, not Kevin! Ugh! Even considering it brings yesterday's lunch back into their mouth. They don't know how, but that name has been sullied.

Steven-nie.

Steve-onnie.

Stevonnie?

What a perfect name!

They don't know if that was what they were called when they were together, _before_. But it seems like something they might have once been.

Even if they never return to their old life, they're happy just being Stevonnie.

They congratulate themself with a proud smile.

_Stevonnie _congratulates themself with a proud smile.

* * *

"Goodnight, Stevonnie," they say to themself with an odd sense of wonderment.

"Goodnight, Stevonnie," they reply to themself with a strange feeling of occasion.

Tonight, even the dull throb from the crack on their gem can't keep them awake.

* * *

They've gotten pretty good at cooking.

There aren't any humans here, which sucks because it means that this isn't their home planet. When they get back home (when, not if - they know that they will), they'll have to relearn all the cuts of meat they can use, all the little tricks to make each meal turn out just right.

They doubt any large creatures on their world even _have _exoskeletons like skitterbugs, or the same blubbery body-structure as a beak-blob. They doubt there are any fruits as big and quenching as the pink-green. How are they supposed to cook such tasty dishes when they return?

Some meals, they prefer to eat as Steven or Connie, each with different tastes from each other, and from Stevonnie.

Connie enjoys tea with red-yellow juice as a sweetener. Fried, expertly-seasoned skitterbug. Walkafish on a spike.

Steven prefers plant food - whole red-yellows, sliced green-purple-blues, pure pink-green juice.

Connie can't stomach beak-blob and Steven feels too guilty to follow through with eating them, but Stevonnie can power through the parts they don't like, and beak-blob is actually pretty great for them together. It helps that even a single one is big enough to provide food and other resources for days at a time if they preserve it properly.

It's when they're cooking beak-blob, separated for the moment, that Steven picks up a broad blade of grass on a whim.

Music can be found anywhere, they know. They haven't heard music since _before, _but it can be anywhere.

Anywhere.

Feeling a little silly - but who is there to laugh but themself and themselves? - Steven pulls the leaf into position and blows.

It doesn't do anything the first time, except to make Connie giggle, and that's worth any effort. So Steven tries again.

Again.

Again.

And Steven _succeeds_.

Mid Low Mid Low Mid Low High Higher High,

_You can count on-_

"There's lyrics!"

Connie gasps and the beak-blob is forgotten - it needs to boil for a while now anyway. They nestle on the grass together and Connie slowly whistles out the notes Steven played before.

As they do, the rhythm is caught and words accompany.

"_If you're evil and you're on the rise,_

_You can count on the four of us taking you down,_

_'Cause we're good and evil ne-ver beats us,_

_We'll win the fight and then go out for pizzas!_

_We_

_Are the Crystal Gems!_

_We'll always save the day!_

_And if you think we can't,_

_We'll always find a way!_

_That's why the people of this world_

_Believe in_

_Garnet, Amethyst, __And Pearl,_

_And Steven..._"

They both know the song, but Steven knows it better. It's amazing to think that at one point they must have been entirely separate people.

Steven and Connie. Separate people.

It's difficult to imagine. Scary to imagine.

_Ingredients and harmony,_

_we mix together perfectly,_

_But are these tunes a memory?_

_And when we make it off the globe,_

_From this world to the one at home,_

_Could we bear to live alone?_

* * *

They've been injured.

Not like the small scrapes they always get across their legs. Those are fine. Those heal.

This slash across their left side? Maybe it won't.

Crimson pours from them, and they feel a strange, hysterical urge to paint a cryptic warning on the nearest tree. Or even just a bloody handprint.

They wipe their tears off with the base of their palm, but as they make to carry on running for their life, the ache of their gem blossoms into a blinding starburst of agony, and they're forced to plant their rear on the nearest tree trunk, grasping at their side.

They don't know why that beak-blob was acting so violently. They only ever do that if their children are threatened, and Stevonnie hasn't hunted those ever since they realised they weren't fully grown - near the beginning of their journey, probably close to four years ago now.

The sharp pain lets up (the ache doesn't), and they find the strength to throw their weight away from the tree and stumble further into the woods. Beak-blobs don't like the sharp points of branches, so it shouldn't follow them from here. The woven rope they left behind is more or less confirmation - to the beak-blob, it looks like a stickabeetle's sticky, razor-sharp webbing.

They catch their stomach on a branch in their haste and involuntarily freeze up as it comes a mere half-inch from their injury. They carefully snap the twig with a few fingers, and only then do they feel safe to give themself a once-over.

They're... fine?

The cut's still there, but it's smaller. Their blood is draining slower. It'll scar, but it's not life-threatening like it was before.

They lick at their blood-soaked hands. It's a bit gross, but they need to retain the iron, especially since they won't be active enough to hunt for a while.

What changed? Why is it healed?

They replay the scene in their mind. The lancing pain, the panicked scramble, the rucksack they left behind-

They _needed _that- Stay on track!

Running, sprinting for the forest. Stings on legs, scrapes on arms. Agony, gem ache, streaming tears. Wiping them away. Hand on wound-

Wait... hand on wound. Tears on hand. Gem ache.

They have no shortage or tears, so they experimentally drag some up onto their bloodied hand and transfer them to a small fleck of damaged skin on their other arm. No point infecting their big injury if they're wrong about this.

The blemish fades away before their eyes.

They wipe away more tears and slap them on top of the red. Under their morbidly curious gaze, it seals itself, leaving a single line of raised tissue. Like...

A zipper. Like the one on their rucksack.

They need to go back for it. They can't, they've lost where they are already. They'll never survive without it! It's okay, they survived without being able to heal until today. It's not-!

It _is_ okay. They have themself.

As the crack in their gem is sealed together under its own power, the ache subsides. For the first time they ever remember, they feel no pain.

And if the crack ever returns, they have plenty of tears to spare.

* * *

They know a lot more now.

They know now why the beak-blob attacked them.

They know now a little of what their gem does.

They know now why they love themself.

They know now that they'll always be together, that nothing can break them apart.

They know now when they were born. That they're five years old.

They know now that they are male and female. And yet neither.

They know now who they are:

Stevonnie.

A relationship, a conversation, an experience.

But more than that, a promise. To never look back, keep walking forward. Love every day because every day is a day with themself.

And, as they look upon the broken pedestal that started it all, they know.

They know now, that they need to keep their promise. Keep walking forward.

They cry, and the pedestal is restored.

And forward they walk, just as they walked around the world.


	2. They Know the Colony

They try to follow their muscle memory as the pedestal's light drags them upwards, but it's been so long since _before _that even their subconscious knowledge has decayed into a vague, niggling sense of _I'm doing it wrong_.

And, as they find out when they're launched bodily from the stream of light, they are indeed doing it wrong.

The planet's surface comes up to greet them just a little too enthusiastically, and a very different muscle memory takes over:

They kick.

The impact rattles them to the core, but they don't feel the agony of crushed bones that they were half expecting. They crack open an eye, and the satisfaction of their perfect three-point landing is lost to the sight before them.

The world is... grey. Broken. Crumbling.

They come apart, holding hands as they begin picking their way across what might once have been farmland. Lifeless plants crumble to dust under their feet, rocky soil refuses to grip onto their bare soles.

This is what they've always seen in the sky, every day on the jungle planet. A dead place.

They take a breath.

Except they can't.

They're Stevonnie again in an instant, sprinting through the ashes as their vision gradually closes around them, scanning the landscape for a flash of white that they know they'll never be able to reach. Stars burst in their eyes and they let out a whimper, finally spotting another one of the pedestals as the world contracts, walls them in.

They trip, and the last of their oxygen is forced from their lungs by the too-hard ground. They can't make it.

No!

They stand up. Their left leg was damaged by the fall, but that won't matter anyway if they die here. Their lungs tighten painfully and colors dance around them, a harsh buzz fills their ears, their stomach threatens to empty itself as their gem glows, far more ready to split them than they are to be split.

They won't make it all the way, but they will take the next step.

And the next.

The next.

Next.

N-

The next nextnextnextnextNever the last step, but always the nextThey refuse to die hereSteven and Connie, Stevonnie, they have a-

For the first time in a long time...

* * *

They don't know much.

They know that their name is Stevonnie.

They have been for five years.

They are Steven and Connie together.

They love themself and themselves.

They are a promise.

Memories of the past minutes well up, and they blink.

Well, no they don't. Not for lack of trying. But one thing at a time.

They didn't make it. But they're still aware. Perhaps not _alive, _but certainly coherent enough to think.

They're lost in a sea of senselessness. The silence is deafening, the darkness so deep they can't tell if there is anywhere to _be. _Their nerves pick up no sensation - no temperature, no pull of gravity, no pain.

Is this the afterlife?

They wish they had a guiding light.

It's granted.

A heart. More specifically, the heart-circuit from their gem. The one that lets them choose to be Stevonnie or Steven and Connie.

It's still whole. Still glowing.

Relief pours into their unfeeling veins. They still have themself and themselves. That's all they need.

They grasp for their senses. Sight is _almost _there, but they think the heart is more in their mind's eye than anything. What they need is something concrete. Something they can use to move. Even if it's just a hand.

They wish. Their non-vision goes white for a moment, and it's granted.

They remember how everything looked, before they fell and came here. They remember sprinting towards the pedestal. They remember exactly where in their gem the heart-circuit is positioned. And from that, they think they know where they're going.

Their hand contacts dusty ground, and they pull.

They shift.

They pull again. They shift again.

Pull, shift. Pull, shift.

They're cruising!

The pedestal looms over them, they imagine. They can feel the incline growing steeper - not from their inactive sense of balance, but because they keep slipping backwards. With each pull, they now have to sweep away the dead grass ahead of them, to avoid sliding back down on the next pull.

Pull, shift, sweep. Pull, shift, sweep.

If the seconds pass, they don't know. They wish they had a sense of time. It isn't granted. Apparently there are some limitations in place for their power.

Pull, shift, sweep.

They curse in their mind when their finger bumps _hard _against something solid. A cliff? Or a pedestal?

They scoot closer, dragging their fingers across the surface. Solid, smooth and faceted: a pedestal.

It's a difficulty to get onto the top, but they manage it eventually with only a bruised knuckle to show for it. Should they risk a flight? Where would they even go? Surely staying on this planet, now that they seemingly don't need to breathe, is safer than going back to the jungle.

But they can't just stay here either, that wouldn't help anything. Are there other pedestals on this planet? A whole network of them going between planets? Who put them here? Are they in use?

Stevonnie doesn't know.

* * *

They develop a system.

They fly to a random pedestal on the planet (it's actually pretty easy to stay in the stream as long as they stay still), wait for something to happen, and if they get bored before that happens - which is every time - they explore.

They've learned a few things. They can leave the image of their heart-circuit to rest on top of the pedestal as a marker, so they can always find their way back. They've learned to skitter on their hand, rather than just drag themself along - confirmation that the hand is the only part of them that actually _exists_, which is more than a little disorienting, not to mention concerning.

They tried to wish back the rest of their body at first, but it hasn't worked. They can temporarily give themselves longer nails or an extra finger, but it's always temporary, and it usually takes a lot out of them.

Splitting is interesting. Steven comes out as a right hand, and Connie as a left. Like usual, Steven's the only one attached to their gem; unlike usual, it's attached by the wrist.

Pretty much everything is difficult for a hand, or even a pair of hands. Every step (for a given definition of 'step') is taken blindly, deafly, putting them in danger of falling into those chasms they once saw from all the way up in the jungle. Communication might have been difficult too, if they were anytwo but Connie and Steven, but as it is they're always in such perfect sync that communication is more of an amenity than a necessity.

If they really need to know what they're thinking, they can just be Stevonnie - which they are half the time anyway.

They miss talking to each other. Eating. Cooking. Singing songs together. They can hold hands, and they do every so often just to feel each other's warmth, but they can't really do anything like that, which is upsetting. But climbing around a dead world with no worries except the stability of the next few inches of ground is a fair amount more fun than they'd thought.

They'll have plenty of time to do the rest once they figure out how they get back to normal.

There's no real danger here beyond the sheer cliffs, which are more large than plenty, so they can easily avoid those. They don't need to breathe or eat (they think that's because their gem can provide enough energy to support them on its own), so this is a breeze compared to the jungle planet.

But they still can't help but wonder if they'll even find anything here.

* * *

They don't have a concrete sense of time.

It feels like eons that they've travelled the world together, skittering and climbing and tapping music onto each other's knuckles, set to the rhythmic pounding that might have once originated from a heart.

If that rhythm's off, they don't know about it. It's their only real indicator that time is even passing from second to second in the first place, so whether the beat is regular or not isn't exactly something that can be...

Measured...

It's Connie's idea. They have a sense of touch, and they can feel their own heartbeats. That's enough information to tell if their heart-rates have any consistency.

They begin when Steven taps Connie on the knuckle.

1\. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7...

When Steven taps again, they stop counting.

Steven gets 100.

Connie gets 121.

Divide Connie's by Steven's. 1.21.

Again.

Steven gets 200.

Connie gets 236.

Divide. 1.18.

Again.

1.20.

1.20.

1.21.

They try it after Connie skitters around, after Steven climbs walls or sweeps clean an area, and it's always the same. Connie's heart (well, her 'heart') is always beating 1.2 times as fast as Steven's! That's progress!

By the end of the next experiment, they've even managed to link Connie's heartbeat back to the rest of the world! It always takes exactly 3 heartbeats for a rock to fall a hundred hand-lengths. Their heartrate is always exactly the same! It's a clock!

So... what would they even use it for? Nothing ever needs to be measured on this planet.

Well, it was a fun challenge anyway.

* * *

It's raining. How interesting!

They haven't experienced rain since they had a full body, back in the jungle. Back then it was pretty to look at, but it always swept their long hair into their eyes, got in the way of their crafts projects and damaged their more hastily-built shelters. Some of the most dangerous jungle creatures - the snap-leg in particular - became more active during storm hours.

Now though, after they get past the inexplicable wave of panic, it's... calming.

They're safe here. They don't need to build a shelter. They don't need to patch up their clothes. They don't need to be packed up and ready to go at a moment's notice.

They don't need their sword, or their rucksack.

Maybe they can go back for them later, once they go home and gather the Crystal Gems. But for now, they're safe here.

* * *

Finally!

They never thought it would happen, but they've finally found something different. Something actually, properly different!

A pedestal.

Okay, the thing itself isn't so different. What's more interesting is its position: Ten hand-lengths from another pedestal.

This could be evidence that the pedestals are set up by an AI. An AI with bugs. Or, this pedestal in particular could be something different. Important somehow.

It's taller, they realise as they climb the first curb, and a second one shunts them back to the floor. An oddly solid, flawless floor, now that they think on it.

They circle it, trailing their pinky across the facets as they go, until they slam into a pillar of some kind. Wait, that's not quite right. It's the side of a set of stairs.

After a little repositioning they climb the stairs eagerly, but when they make it to the top, that's quickly replaced by disappointment.

It's inactive.

There's a hairline fracture running through it, they think. They can't really tell through their numb, calloused fingertips or their sanded-down nails, but there's definitely something wrong with it.

They feel the sudden urge to cry, but they can't. Because like it or not, they're still just a hand.

And they don't need to anyway! There are more pedestals, all circling the middle one!

Broken

Broken

Broken

They came from that one

Broken

Brok-fixed?

They know where they're going today!

* * *

The next landing point is similar: One larger, broken structure in the middle, several smaller pedestals surrounding it.

Did the smaller ones always have steps?

They pick the only other warp pad that works, and fly.

It's a similar room again.

Broken, broken, broken, fixed, fly.

Fixed, fly.

Broken, fixed, fly.

There's always exactly two working ones: the one they came from, and the one they leave through.

They might be walking into a trap, they suddenly realise. But if they were, they think it would have ended by now. Why lead them on this wild goose chase when it would be far easier to just... well, there's a bunch of ways that someone could kill Stevonnie. Even when they had four working limbs.

No more sad thoughts, they chastise themself, balling into a fist to hug themself the best they can.

They'll be glad when this is all over.

No more sad thoughts! They're in this-

They split apart.

They're in this together, they both know.

* * *

Weirdly enough when Stevonnie got the hang of it so quickly, Steven and Connie are both pretty terrible at flying. As often as not, they'll end up bouncing off a wall, and one time Steven even managed to bounce six times.

They both shake with mirth at the thought. They were bruised for days after the fact.

(Well, they think it was days. That was how long it took Stevonnie, when they could still count the days.)

They're thoroughly lost. They don't always land on the pedestal anymore, and while they can usually tell from contextual clues which one goes backwards, that's not always the case.

They don't mind. If they end up back where they started, they'll just try again, but more carefully. It's not like they have any reason not to.

* * *

The last room is different.

Namely, _all _of the other stair-pedestals are broken. They check twice, three, four times, but the only active one is the one they came from.

And the one without stairs.

This is their last stop. It must be. The air on their skin is different than that of the dead planet. Wetter, more alive. More like Earth, they think.

They've been led... somewhere. A trap? Sanctuary? People must have been looking for them. The Crystal Gems. Their enemies, _if you're evil and you're on the rise_.

Whichever they are though, they probably aren't expecting a walking hand to use their pedestals.

They're Stevonnie again, and they rise through the unseen light for what they hope will be the last time.

* * *

This is...

Different.

Crystal floor.

Then...

Wood?

They wince as their ring fingertip earns a splinter. Yep, that's wood alright. With a quick shapeshift it's out, and they sag a little in relief from the pain.

They take a step and hit something.

It's... solid. Not hard, it's actually a little squishy, but it's clear there's something inside-

Something scoops beneath them, lifting them off the ground, and they freeze. It's a personThey'reinaperson'shand theyneedto-

Calm.

They need to calm down. They're not dead yet.

They split forcefully apart, and the hand drops them onto the floor, unable to retain its grip on the both of them. Connie hits the floor first, panic all but forgotten as Steven sends out an image of the heart-circuit, and she sprints towards him.

Two powerful slams of feet vibrate through the wooden floor, and she breaks off her approach as Steven lands palm-up, flipping himself upright with little difficulty. They scrawl away from where they think the attacker is, and are rewarded with the even heavier _bang _of someone, with any luck, falling over.

The wood creaks under their enemy's shifting weight, and Steven imagines a faceless head lifting up to glare at them. Connie and Steven both send out a heart-circuit, and they break for each other without a second thought, meeting in the middle and they're Stevonnie again, ready to fight.

The enemy freezes.

Then, taps.

Left right left right left right middle, all-three, middle,

_'You can count on...'_

They relax. This is a friend.

A sharp pain, and their hand is gone.

And they're gone.

* * *

They don't know how long it's been, but they think they're finally ready.

They'll get it right this time.

They wish.

Their not-sight blooms into white, and then it dims into...

Breath. Warm, too warm, closed off- Homely. Still. Safe.

Sound. Deafening rings, ticks, whirrs- Voices. The rustle of sheets.

Touch. Soft. Suffocating, comfortable.

They...

They can breathe! They can hear, touch, balance, they're _FREE_!

Laughter bubbles up and they let it out gladly. The voices stifle from somewhere below but they don't care, they have a _below_!

They feel through their hand. Hands. They have two now! They lift one up, the right one, the one they walked on for so long, shuddering in delight when their balance decides it _hates _that idea. Balance can't tell them what to do, they lived just fine without it! They push their hands down to sit their body up, lift both hands in defiance, and...

They don't fall.

Can they... yes. They can hold hands. And they don't fall.

Tears well up through their closed eyes, and they're tempted to open them. But they don't think they could handle it.

Not... like this.

They split.

* * *

They open their eyes.

He sees Connie.

She sees Steven.

They see their hands. Steven's right and Connie's left, calloused, worn, damaged. Steven's left and Connie's right, untouched, delicate.

All of them linked. Just like they promised.

"Love every day," they remind each other, their first words in so long that their voices are hardly recognisable through the strain and the rasp.

They certainly do.


End file.
